


we were nearly gods

by layercake



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layercake/pseuds/layercake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Achilles is the son of a senator, Patroclus is still the <i>philtatos</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. senior year

**Author's Note:**

> This is the high school AU no one wanted (annnd that was the title of this fic up until this moment). There are elements of TSOA in here (I just finished reading it and _goddamn_ ) but for the record Patroclus is not as weak as Miller made him out to be and in this respect is more true to Homer canon. This is complete self indulgence so I apologise if there are any errors, nothing has been looked over by anyone other than me. ;-;  
> I am looking to write this as sort of a remix, but as I have never written anything longer than 500 words before we'll see how it goes. Feel free to bounce ideas off me on [tumblr](http://laevateinn.co.vu)! I'm always happy to talk about dead Greek boys. :)

Patroclus could hear the sound of a PE class outside the second floor history window.

He was distracted, the teacher had lost him in 1918 at the Paris Peace Conference and he couldn’t muster up the strength to listen again. It was only ten minutes into class, a new record low for him surely. His head felt fuzzy from staying up all night working on his English paper, and Briseis had to stick a pointy elbow in his ribs twice already to keep him from falling asleep propped up on his arm.

His pencil moved absentmindedly across the half-filled notebook page in front of him, his messy scrawl slanting every which way and hardly legible. For whatever strange reason, Achilles loved his handwriting, he said he found it endearing. Patroclus would beg to differ, but then again he had a shameful fixation for Achilles’ fine-boned hands that no one other than Briseis could know about, so who was he to judge.

Unwittingly, he found that he had stopped jotting down the occasional date and name that his half conscious mind registered and instead had begun to sketch a set of too familiar collar bones, well defined shoulders slanting down to lean arms, the start of an athlete’s torso. Patroclus fiddled with the cuff of his shirt and ducked his head. He had already filled two sketchbooks with his best friend and about half his art projects were subtly based off of some variation of Achilles doing something or another. Briseis told him he was creepy, he told her it was art. But it wasn’t like he could stop himself, or his hand for that matter from tracing the same jawline, the same Cupid’s bow, the same casual curl of hair that slipped out of the ponytail at the back of his head time and time again. It was always Achilles, always going to be Achilles. Achilles laughing, face tilted towards the sun; Achilles with his eyes closed, sleeping on the bed next to his; Achilles with his brow drawn, chewing on the back of a pencil as he flipped through his Latin textbook; Achilles checking his phone; Achilles perched on Patroclus’ bed on a Saturday morning wearing that infuriatingly big, soft as sin purple knit sweater he favoured that slipped off his shoulder _all the goddamn time_ to reveal smooth golden skin. Patroclus found that he always needed a convenient cushion over his lap—shut up it was because the laptop was burning his thighs—whenever Achilles wore that sweater, which was much too often to be legal.

Sometimes when Patroclus snuck glances at him, their eyes would meet for one terrifying moment and Patroclus would feel his face flush rapidly while Achilles would just smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

He loved and hated those moments in equal measure.

A sharp jab in the ribs made Patroclus scowl as Briseis tapped her pencil rapidly at his notebook.

“Essay test next Tuesday idiot” was written on the margins of his notes in her neat and rounded lettering, and he frowned and rolled his eyes scribbling back, “He doesn’t even teach!!!” with three exclamation points for emphasis.

“You don’t even listen!!!!” Came the reply with four exclamation points.

“Yeah like you do.”

Briseis nudged her meticulously colour-coded notes in his direction, a smirk on her lips before quickly whipping it away from Patroclus’ hands. He pouted and watched as she wrote something on a fresh sheet of paper.

“Not until you stop daydreaming about loverboy in class.”

Patroclus huffed, bending over the paper. “Was not, that’s weird.”

Briseis just smiled secretively, pointed to her ear, then at their teacher before turning away. Patroclus folded his arms across his chest and felt the rapid fluttering of his heart through his uniform shirt.

His mind was suddenly less fuzzy. 

 

_____

 

Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles for old money and new money simply didn’t mingle.

Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles until the day his father disappeared off the radar and ran away to Switzerland after his mother died. It was something about some scandal or another that Patroclus could barely remember. All he could recall was the face of a grim police officer who had squatted down next to him, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and told him something he was too dazed to hear. The next thing he knew he was being whisked away to the local orphanage, ten years old and utterly alone.

Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles until a wealthy senator’s wife decided that the best way for her husband to win the next election was to open a foster home, to start a little charity project to show just how _loving_ and _kind_ and _caring_ the family was. And so Patroclus, along with ten other handpicked boys, moved into a villa that resembled his father’s old family mansion. Peleus and Thetis, the senator and his wife, were nice enough whenever they were actually around, not that anyone cared that they weren’t, for it was the senator’s eight year-old son that was the real hit amongst the children. Day in and day out, nine boys preened and strutted in front of him to get noticed, to be his favourite plaything, and orbited him as if he were the sun and they the nine planets. There weren’t ten planets in the sky, and so Patroclus never vied for his attention.

Patroclus was fine alone, happy even to be perpetually stuck in that awkward zone between mediocre and excellent. He was above average in just about everything: height, build, features, and marks at the proper private school he and the other boys were sent to. It suited him, his ten-year-old self liked it that way. The real question was why he caught the perfect Achilles’ elusive attention.

Patroclus was never supposed to meet Achilles, but the Fates had made an exception.

 

_____

 

They were sitting in their room after school, a bowl of freshly washed figs on the floor between them. The two of them had shared a room since Achilles announced to his father at dinner that Patroclus was moving in with him, no questions asked, when Patroclus was thirteen and Achilles was eleven.

Achilles is sixteen now, and Patroclus was tempted to move out. He couldn’t justify the way his eyes would trace and trail across Achilles’ silver-lined features at night when they left the curtains open, couldn’t help but feel disgusted at himself for thinking about long, slim fingers, golden skin, and soft blonde hair when Achilles was in the shower and he had some time to himself. _Achilles is underage, Achilles is underage, Achilles is underage_ became the mantra he would chant in his head whenever Achilles climbed into his bed because he “couldn’t sleep”. _You’re like a big brother to him_.

Patroclus had brought up moving out one afternoon, citing age and the boundaries that must come with age as excuses, but the look of genuine hurt and confusion that had crossed Achilles’ face was enough to get him quickly backtracking.

Moving out never crossed his mind again.

They are sprawled on the floor now, blazers thrown carelessly over chair backs and ties loosened. Patroclus with his sleeves rolled up was reading half-heartedly about redox reactions, while Achilles had picked up three figs and was juggling them, round and round, fingers dancing across the tender purple flesh.

“Agamemnon ’s hosting a party this weekend.”

Patroclus hummed in response, still scanning the page.

“Catch.”

He looked up just in time to catch a fig that Achilles had tossed his way. “You wanna go?” The fruit was warm in his hand.

“Yeah, with you.”

Patroclus turned the fig over and over, Achilles' response echoing in his ear. He could feel the heat of Achilles’ hand that lingered still, and the air felt thicker as Achilles stopped juggling to watch Patroclus bite into the fig. He didn’t know what to make of the weight of Achilles’ green eyes on him, and as his tongue swept across his bottom lip to chase the sweetness of the fruit, Patroclus knew his eyes tracked the motion.

“You just want me for my ID.”

Achilles smiled, his eyes never leaving his face,“Nah I just want you for your street cred. Best of the Myrmidons yeah?”

“You’re captain of the lacrosse team, not me.”

“You’re the MVP.” Achilles placed a fig back in the bowl and raised the other to his lips.

“Mhm, and who chooses the MVP?”

Achilles swallowed, throat bobbing, and it is Patroclus’ turn to stare. “The coach,” he said nonchalantly.

Patroclus threw his eraser at him, “Fucking asshole”

He dodged nimbly and grinned. “Learnt it from the best.”

Achilles laughed as Patroclus tackled him, going straight for the spot beneath his ribs. They tussled on the floor, Achilles slighter frame as slippery as a fish, wiggling and kicking out of Patroclus’ hold with tears of laughter in his eyes. He used his superior speed to flip Patroclus onto his back, pin his wrists with his hands, and bear down on him to keep him in place. Patroclus stopped struggling against his hold as Achilles leaned down, strands of blonde hair that had escaped in the scuffle falling onto Patroclus’ face. His breath was sweet when his lips brushed the shell of his ear in a whisper.

“Please, Patroclus, come with me.”

Patroclus closed his eyes. _I’d follow you to the end of the world_.

 

_____

 

Achilles had been lonely. He was the senator’s son, the product of a marriage between a political powerhouse and family with too much ambition. His grandfather on his mother’s side had been the vice president once; it wasn’t for love. His father hoped to live up to his father-in-law’s legacy, his mother hoped her son would surpass it. She wanted his name in the history books, wanted eternal glory.

He simply wanted a friend.

As young as he was, he had no shortage of sycophants, for he was bred to ooze charisma despite how volatile his moods could be. Yet the faces that came and went, that praised him endlessly only made the hole in his chest gape wider. When he first saw Patroclus sitting in a corner while the other boys crowded raucously around him, he knew there was something different about him. And so he trailed curiously after Patroclus when he came back from school one day and sought him out from where he sat underneath a willow tree. He stood in front of the other boy and stuck a small hand out at him, a smile on his face.

“My name is Achilles, I want to be your friend.”

 

_____

 

“The black or the green?”

“Green,” came the automatic reply. Patroclus was sitting on his bed, fiddling with his phone as Achilles took out shirt after shirt. “It brings out your eyes.”

If Patroclus was honest with himself, he'd probably admit Achilles didn’t need a shirt to bring out his gold-flecked doe eyes. If Patroclus was really honest, he'd say Achilles didn’t needed a shirt at all, but a half-naked Achilles would ruin him. He scrolled aimlessly through his mailbox, his texts, afraid to look at all the skin on display as Achilles changed. It was dangerous, for his eyes would always linger too long on his leather-clad ass, and he’d always want to reach out and stroke his hand down his back, to touch. His phone on the other hand was safe, it didn’t have lean muscle that rippled whenever it moved, and it certainly didn’t play three different varsity sports.

“You aren’t even looking.”

“You always look beautiful.”

“But my hair is a fucking mess! It looks like something out of a horror film, or a chicken coop.” He was whining now, and Patroclus made a show of looking up from refreshing his Facebook feed.

“It’s fine, you’re fine. Just run your fingers through it a bit and maybe spritz on some hairspray, you’ll have the just-got-absolutely-ravished look down pat.” His eyes roamed over Achilles’ backside once again. He could wear a garbage bag and still look like he walked out of a wet dream.

Achilles pouted in front of the mirror, raked his fingers through his hair once, twice. “Good?” He patted at a non-existent bump.

“Yeah definitely, all the girls’d love it.” Patroclus stood and tucked his phone into his pocket, “You ready?”

Achilles glanced at the mirror one last time, then sauntered over to Patroclus and put his arms on Patroclus’ shoulders in one fluid motion. The height difference that was present only a year before had disappeared as Achilles’ growth spurt hit, and he once confessed that he liked it when he didn’t have to look up to talk to Patroclus anymore. Patroclus on the other hand knew it also meant that he could lean forward anytime now and his lips would be on Achilles’, just like that, which was possibly why he nearly fell back a step at their sudden proximity and only caught himself at the last second by gripping Achilles’ hips. He could do nothing but stare dumbly at the other boy as he ran fingers through his dark brown curls.

“Your hair’s always so nice, so effortless,” he murmured head tilted to the side as if transfixed by something as mundane as Patroclus' hair. He could feel the heat of Achilles' skin through the thin fabric of his shirt and he was looking at him as if he wanted to say something important, but a beat later what came out instead was “you smell nice”. He gave Patroclus’ hair one last tug before side stepping out of Patroclus’ arms and grabbing his phone and keys from his desk.

“Let’s go.”

 

_____

 

Achilles was sitting on the couch, drink abandoned on the table beside him as the girl in his lap attacked his neck. Her dark brown hair swayed from side to side as her hips moved against his, her dress riding further and further up her thigh with each rocking motion. Patroclus took a sip from a red cup and swallowed whatever vile concoction Odysseus had thrust into his hand when he had taken up his place beside the bar. He watched as the girl enthusiastically attached her lips to Achilles’ face now, thrilled to be Achilles Pelides’ girl of the night, but Achilles' half-lidded eyes were open and he was looking almost languidly at Patroclus. Patroclus could see the green even from where he was standing, could see Achilles’ hand on the girl’s waist, could see the way his hips shifted imperceptibly. He turned away.

“She is a catch isn’t she,” Diomedes had appeared next to him, gesturing vaguely with his cup in Achilles’ direction.

“Hmm?” He sipped at his drink, feigning disinterest.

“That hottie junior sucking face with Achilles over there? Deidameia I think, dance team? Heard she got her eyes on him since the start of the year.”

“Oh yeah, totally, nice hair.”

“Your boy, I swear Pat, he‘s been getting all the girls since he came to high school. Us seniors, we gotta step up our game. Last year here, you gotta treasure it you know? College girls aren’t so easy.” He smirked and clapped Patroclus on the shoulder, making his drink slosh slightly in his cup. “Must be nice having him as your wingman.”

“Yeah, yeah course.” Another sip. _Your boy_.

“Hope he’s not the only one to get lucky tonight,” Diomedes lowered his voice and leant in, “Agamemnon said he got some girls from that girl’s school across the road to come over.” He wiggled his eyebrows triumphantly, pumped his hips a few times and Patroclus laughed along.

“Heard they’re hot huh.”

“Oh yeah, that Euippe, tits so big they’re like beach balls.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes, "right yeah, _beach balls._ ”

“See, now I gotta go and prove it to you, actions speak louder than words and all.”

“Good luck getting it man, hope your dick actually matches up to her tits this time!” He yelled after him, laughing as Diomedes turned around to flip him off as he walked into the crowd.  

“Fuck you too dude!” Diomedes yelled back, barely audible above the pounding bass. Patroclus shook his head fondly and took a sip of his drink. When he looked back at the couch, Achilles and Deidameia had already disappeared. He knocked back the rest of his drink and pulled out his phone to shoot Briseis a text. He should’ve known not to come, should’ve known it’d just end with Briseis and him together in a room, passing a joint between the two of them, and making exaggerated noises to pretend they were fucking. But Achilles always asked, and Patroclus, well Patroclus could never refuse him anything.

 


	2. (cont.)

Patroclus didn’t remember much of his life before Achilles, all he could recall were snatches of sepia-tinged images as they flashed through his head at night whenever he couldn’t sleep. Those little moments, that montage of his childhood had faded over the years, but every once in a while he would think about his parents with a scary sort of detachment. He was sure that was wrong on many different levels, but with the way his father treated him he couldn’t really be blamed.

Here’s what he knew for certain: his mother with her caramel coloured hair streaming behind her, eyes closed to the ocean spray as they stood on the edge of the sand. His father, dark eyes severe as he gripped his hand and brought a ruler down on it again and again and again. The salty tang of the ocean wind in his face mixing with the salty tang of his tears, the pain of the ruler dulling as it swirled together with the gentle touch of his mother. The sterile washed-out hospital room and the incessantly beeping machines that grated on his nerves and the smell of antiseptic that clung to his clothes even though he was sure the maid had cleaned it days ago. The waxen marble floors of the sitting room shot through with streaks of black that crawled across the white like dead veins, the harsh strange melody of shattering glass, the sharp musk of whiskey on his father’s breath as he screamed into the phone. 

The red red blood of the boy as it streamed across the dull grey of the concrete, the way his jaw hung open in an unnatural scream, his crystal blue eyes. They were staring at him, looking at him, burning him, shaming him, and _oh no oh no oh no what would his father think_ flashed like neon lights in his head as a white noise only he could hear rang in his ears and rose like a wall to block out everything else. All he could register then was the muted ache of his hand as the edges of the Gameboy left angry pale imprints on his palm.

Patroclus’ didn’t have a life before Achilles. 

_____

 

As he watched him stare at his blank computer screen, Achilles suddenly wished that Patroclus would take a gap year. He didn’t want to live somewhere without Patroclus, didn't want that constant to disappear from his life, and he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him either on Skype or twice a year or none at all, because which university student remembered their best friend back in high school? He was selfish, but he was always selfish with what was his.

“Trouble?” He asked, abandoning his own homework in favour of resting his head on Patroclus’ shoulder. They stared at a blank document together, and Patroclus sighed resignedly.

“Wanna write my uni app for me?” He asked, his eyes sliding to study Achilles’ profile. Achilles loved it when Patroclus looked at him, it made him feel special and needed to have the attention of someone as gorgeous as Patroclus. Why people weren’t throwing themselves at him is a mystery he hoped he would never solve, for it just meant he could keep more of Patroclus to himself.

“Kiss me and I’ll do it.” He was feeling especially daring today, willing to push the boundaries Patroclus were so sensitive about. He knew he would brush him off, punch him lightly on the shoulder, treat him like a younger brother and not a lover, but he liked the high it gave him just to be able to say _kiss me_ to him. He didn’t know what it was about Patroclus that made him lose all of his infamous charm; maybe it was because the charm was just another facet of the public persona that he had to maintain, and everything was simpler with Patroclus.

True to form, the other boy merely shoved at Achilles, laughing as the shadow of a blush crept up his neck. “Don’t mess man, uni ’s serious.”

With Achilles a safer distance away, Patroclus swivelled around in his chair to face him. Achilles stood there between his legs studying him almost contemplatively, head tilted slightly to the side.

“Why don’t you take a gap year? We could go together.” He had started school early at the behest of his mother, which meant he would be graduating next year instead of the year after. “Mother and father won’t mind, and you won’t have to worry about that shit now. It’ll be great, we could be together like always.”

He had reached for his hands and now held them in both his own.

Patroclus looked at Achilles, who stood there looking slightly embarrassed, but earnest nonetheless. “You really want me to take a gap year? You aren’t sick of me yet?” His voice was almost imperceptibly softer.

“Did you hit your head or something? Never. You know that Patroclus, I could never get sick of you,” he smiled though he paused at the end, trying hard to suppress a laugh, “or your smelly feet for that matter. Oh wherever would I be without you?” He grinned impishly, stroking his thumbs over the ridges and bumps of his knuckles.

“Hey who has smelly feet again,” Patroclus protested, pushing Achilles away. “I’ll never take a gap year if this is what I’m going to be waking up to," he shook his head, turned back to his desk and closed the blank document, though Achilles could tell there was a hint of a smile on his face.

Achilles flopped back onto Patroclus’ bed, arms spread out wide and crinkling his abandoned homework that was strewn across the covers. “Think about it, promise me.” The _stay with me_ that nearly slipped out of his mouth hung between them.

He heard him fiddling with his computer a bit, but his answer came without hesitation. “I promise,” more clicks. "You know, I’ve thought about it before, just wasn’t sure what you’d say.” 

Achilles sat up and folded his legs together. The light of the setting sun was streaming through the window now, and sitting there Patroclus looked like a golden statue, an impossible boy touched by Midas. Achilles often thought that if there ever were a god he would take the form of the man in front of him.

“Whatever you do, I’ll always be behind you.” 

 

_____

 

Despite it all Achilles didn’t have daddy issues. His life was like a math problem, _if x and y are constants find z_. His father was constantly away, his mother constantly overbearing, but those were just facts of life, bonuses that came with the Loro Piana coats, the colourful Hermes scarves, and the flashing cameras.

He is still trying to find himself.

Whenever they weren’t having jilted conversations in the dark of kitchen or away attending yet another necessary dinner, they would sit, one on each side of his bed and read him bedtime stories. His mother didn’t believe in frivolities like the Three Little Pigs or the Red Riding Hood, she knew they wouldn’t aid him on his path to grandeur. So instead he was read stories of heroes and conquerors, of war and honor, of gods and monsters, of love and death. He would fall asleep to the sound of a million pair of sandaled feet pounding on blood-drenched sand, the glint of polished armor, the heat of the sun on bronze backs, and the feel of sweat dripping down brows. Sometimes the images were so vivid he could almost taste the adrenaline flowing through his veins, but he wasn’t a hero, and he had never lived through war.

He always felt like he has.

Thetis made sure his life was never dull, and packed his schedule with lesson after lesson after lesson. It made his six year-old mind spin. _This is the violin, you’d do well to know how to play it. This is a horse, know how to ride it. This is the stock market, this is a hunting rifle, this is the blueprint of your life that will make you unforgettable, this is what will bring you eternal glory_. All he wanted was a Gameboy, what he got was a picture book describing how the senate worked.

But these were the constants, and they were necessary to find z.

 

_____

 

“I want ice cream.”

“Achilles. It’s two in the morning.”

“I want ice cream.”

“I’m only up because I need to study for my fucking history test.”

“So get ice cream with me.” Achilles was on his side on the floor, toes peeking out beneath too-long sweatpants and fiddling with the strap of Patroclus’ bag.

“I want to sleep and you want goddamn ice cream?! It’s a wonder you have abs at all.” And then, “not everyone is lucky enough to have your metabolism.” 

“Pa-tro-clus.”

“That’s not fucking fair, you’re taking advantage of my weakness.” He threw down the history textbook that was open on his lap and turned around, “let’s go get fucking ice cream. Is there anymore in the fridge?”

“Not my fault you melt whenever I say your name.”

He glared. “Only because I love you.”

“I love you too, but at the moment I love ice cream more,” he was up already, smile wide on his face and rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Asshole.” Patroclus stretched his arms over his head, rubbed his eyes, and ruffled the hair at the back of his neck before following Achilles out the door.

“You’ll ace that history test, I know it.”

“Never knew ace in your dictionary means fail.”

“It doesn’t. My special senses are tingling, and they’re telling me you are an awesome history student who's studied enough already.” Achilles looked back, and held out his hand, “come on you  _senior_ , so slow already? ‘s this what people are like when they get old? Keep up with the pace of the times grandpa.”

“I’ll show you who’s old in this relationship,” Patroclus grabbed his proffered hand as he ran forward, dragging a laughing Achilles behind him as they charged to the kitchen.

He never let go of his hand.


	3. eleven/thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter, but I wanted to finish something for all the lovely people who've liked this fic so far. Thank you again. <3
> 
> Inspiration for one of the lines from Eyes Closed by The Narrative.

They weren’t strangers to sneaking off in the night to do things they weren’t supposed to do.

The villa had a large indoor pool in the basement that was highly inconvenient due to the humidity, the high cost of maintenance, and how prone to mold the walls were. Peleus had wanted the pool demolished years ago, but Thetis was adamant about its presence. However the adults rarely, if ever, used the meticulously maintained pool; and so the nine boys, with Achilles in the lead, took full advantage of the fact that they had an entire private pool all to themselves, and every summer would run with a sort of enthusiasm reserved only for young boys to the basement and cannonball one after the other into the water. 

Achilles was eleven. He liked water fights and noise and action, and consequently the nine other boys did too. Patroclus usually sat on the deck of the shallow end in his swimming trunks, gently swishing his feet through the water and making ripples with his fingers. He could swim of course, but he never liked water much, it reminded him of drowning. Achilles had once pleaded and begged for him to join one of the many water fights the group had, as he wanted his best friend to love the game as much as he did; and admittedly the two of them did make a very good team, splashing and diving to win round after round. But Patroclus seemed to be only going through the motions to please Achilles, and Achilles hated the way that weird false smile looked on his face.

He never pushed him to join another game again.

But Achilles loved the water, and he knew Patroclus did too, despite his aversion to silly water games. After all he had managed to persuade a fondly begrudging Patroclus to accompany him to the pool after curfew once, just the two of them, he had said, on an adventure. They didn’t do much splashing after they’d successfully gotten to the pool itself, instead they’d lain back and let the rhythm of the artificial current wash over them and lull them into a trance as they watched the gentle waves of the water cast blue shadows and glistering patterns that winked in and out of existence onto the walls around them. Patroclus had lightly nudged him then and pointed out a single spot of black mould on the pristine white ceiling.

“That’s Polaris, and it’ll always lead us home”.

Achilles, with his eyes half-lidded, had watched him from the peripheral of his vision and felt in his eleven year-old bones a deep sort of contentment he wasn’t used to feeling at the expression on Patroclus’ face. For some inexplicable reason then, he wanted Patroclus’ expression at that moment to be only for him, forever.

Late night pool visits with just the two of them became the norm after that.

They were sitting on the lounge chairs beside the pool now, dripping wet and naked. Patroclus had his arms on his knees, figure relaxed as he stared at the water while Achilles lay to the side, taking intermittent peeks at him. At thirteen, he had to look up at Patroclus in order to talk to him and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that quite yet. Patroclus’ first growth spurt had hit him unexpectedly, and he’d shot up five inches in just half a year. Football and track and field had also helped fill out his entire frame, but for some reason he was still quite shy about his new body. Sitting there with him now however, the ever-present tension that had pulled the muscles taut in Patroclus’ body seemed to disappear, and for the first time he looked comfortable in his own skin.  

As Achilles watched him, watched the glint and shimmer of the water’s gentle ripples, watched the chlorine blue shade illuminate the curves and lines of his face, watched as light played hide and seek with dark across his body, he could only think

 _He’s beautiful_.  

If only he could see himself now.

Patroclus turned as he felt the prick of eyes on him and looked at Achilles, a light lopsided smile on his face.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Oh me? Nothing much, the water looks nice,” he said quickly, the silence and the stupor he had found himself in broken. He realized with a start that he had just thought of Patroclus, his _best friend_ of all people, as beautiful. That word was reserved for girls only, girls like Iphigenia who was cute, girls like Polyxena who was hot, who was _fuckable_ , not for boys like Patroclus. It was wrong.

“You ever think that, like hey, the universe is so so big, and we’re so so small?”

What on _earth_ would Patroclus think if he was called beautiful? What would he think of Achilles? Would he be weirded out? Swear never to go skinny-dipping again with a creep like him? Who the fuck thought their best friend was beautiful?

“Like wow, look at the stars. They’re proof of how absolutely tiny we are, how irrelevant. I mean, we aren’t even _dust particles_ floating through space, we’re essentially nothing. We are space, just blank empty space you know? No one other than us are going to know we existed, and, well, you and I, we’re all gonna die some day, so we might as well not have existed at all.”

He was a freak, that’s what he was, a freak that called his own best friend beautiful. But no one was going to know, right? Not Antilochus, not Alcimedon, and certainly not Hector, this was going to be a one off thing, a slip of the mind.

“But who cares man? This is all worth it. I’m here now and you’re here now, and, well,”

Achilles looked up at Patroclus then, watched him twirl an errant string on the edge of the cushion he sat on around and around.

“Well, I know you… and, I think, in this life at least… I’m more than happy with just that,” he murmured at last, the dark of the room made it impossible to discern his expression.

 _Beautiful_ , an insistent voice whispered in his mind, but Achilles paid it no heed and instead looked up at the ceiling, folding his arms behind his head.

“Yeah. Me too.”

 

_____

 

Achilles was thirteen when he first dreamed of sun-warmed skin, dark brown hair, and the stretch and pull of muscle as it moved above him. He was thirteen when he arched into the warm touch of a broader hand as it moved across his chest, down his stomach, and down his hips, body pulled tight like a strung bow. He was thirteen when he imagined the whisper of lips on his neck, white teeth leaving red marks on his skin like a brand, the hot stuttered breath of another on the pulse of his heart, and the rapid slide of skin on skin, of gold on gold. He was thirteen when he first woke to a stain on his sheets while shame permeated his mind like spilled ink. He was thirteen when he tiptoed quietly out of bed to avoid waking the boy sleeping beside him to dump his sheets unceremoniously into the basket for the maids to wash. He was thirteen when he first wondered what it’d feel like to have Patroclus on top of him, inside of him, surrounding him until he choked on his presence. He was thirteen when he first touched himself in the shower and thought _would he do it like this? Would he go slow or fast or would he mix it up?_ He was thirteen when he first came with Patroclus’ name a ghost on his lips.

Achilles was thirteen when he first kissed Polyxena.

Instead of her lip-gloss he only tasted the sweet musk of his cologne.


	4. sophomore year

His first introduction to Briseis was, to put it delicately, a highly revealing one. Achilles had just returned to a seemingly empty house from cross-country practice one Tuesday afternoon, his sweaty jersey draped limply over one shoulder and track shorts hanging low on his hips like always. He was thinking about giving Patroclus a big hug before taking his shower (just to watch him jump and yelp at how “jesus fuck Achilles you just got a shit ton of sweat on me a-fucking-gain”) as he bound up the stairs, but when he banged open the door he found not a bored looking Patroclus sitting at his desk but a girl sitting on a chair beside a blushing Patroclus. She had her hands on his keyboard and was leaning into his space, trying to use her body to shove him away from the screen, while he was grabbing at her arm, laughing at whatever she was trying to do. Two pairs of startled eyes turned to Achilles when the door flew open, but he only dropped his varsity bag on the floor unfazed and very indelicately flung his schoolbag down next to it where it landed with a dull thud. The two looked slightly embarrassed for whatever reason, and they quickly jumped apart almost guiltily. Achilles didn’t quite want to think about the implications at that point and instead decided to let autopilot take over, smiling his most winning smile as he strode confidently into the room and held out one hand towards the girl. He was surprisingly well mannered when he was on autopilot, a distant part of his brain supplied helpfully, and his eyes slid of their own accord to Patroclus, who was taking the time to rapidly backspace away as the red slowly faded from his cheeks. He focused back on the girl.

“Hey I’m Achilles and I have the pleasure of meeting?”

“Briseis. Patroclus’ friend.” Her grip was firm in his; Achilles could certainly appreciate a girl who knew how to do a proper handshake, particularly one as attractive as she was. But by the looks of things she didn’t need his appreciating.

“Ah yes, the famed Briseis, I’ve heard many good things about you.”

Briseis laughed at that and turned to swat a sheepish Patroclus on the shoulder, “I’m sure Pat only tells you the good bits.”

Achilles gut twisted slightly at the nickname. Though half the lacrosse team used it, it felt different coming from Briseis’ mouth.

From the moment he came into the room he’d already instinctively disliked the too small space between her and him and the comfortable camaraderie between the two. It felt much too intimate, too familiar. It felt like how he acted around him. He knew it had to be natural for this level of comfort to develop between the two as they’d known each other for ages—Patroclus often talked about her—but he’d never known the extent of their friendship and never saw how easy their interactions were, how the banter between them was so natural that he almost felt like an outsider in his own room. It felt strange to see Patroclus so in his element around someone of the opposite gender, something he’d never witnessed before despite hearing in first hand detail of the many hook-ups he had pestered Patroclus to reveal one night when they’d raided Peleus’ liquor cabinet.

“Well, I’m terribly sorry but unfortunately this fantastic view,” he gestured at himself, “has to go. Not everyone has the pleasure of seeing all of this all at once.” He winked at Briseis, who simply smiled before turning back to Patroclus and whatever they had been looking at on the computer before Achilles had burst in. He’d stopped backspacing now and instead lightly shoved at her when she tried to subtly reach for the laptop again. It was quite refreshing, honestly, to have someone not stare in awe at Achilles’ half naked form. But then again she was looking at Patroclus instead.

He could tell why he liked her.

“You fucker,” he could hear her hiss, and then a _click click click_ as Patroclus surrendered the keyboard to her and she began typing out something else.

“Yeah man, sorry about bringing Briseis over without telling you first. We’re doing a project.”

“Nah it’s all fine, I bring people over all the time, so you know, no biggie. It’s not like you’re intruding or anything,” he rummaged around for a clean set of clothes, suddenly uncharacteristically self-conscious in front of the two of them.

“Well, this is probably the only time I’m gonna thank god that you’re so comfortable in your own skin.”

“I have all the reason to be darling,” Achilles turned around to blow a cheeky kiss at Patroclus, who was looking over Briseis’ head at him. She was staring intently at the screen, and tapped him on the shoulder to point at whatever it was they were working on. He looked away quickly and Achilles turned to head into the shower, clothes in a bundle under his arm.

 

_____

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You were supposed to fall in love with a pretty white girl from your grade that had a nice little family out in the country with a dog and maybe a pony.

She was supposed to be as wholesome as apple pie with no political ties, no scandals, and perfect marks in school — future First Lady material. You were supposed to date her for a few years in high school, go to some Ivy League or another with her, and propose on Graduation Day. Your pretty and humble fiancée was supposed to be right beside you, working with you on your first campaign, and celebrating your first success.

You weren’t supposed to be fourteen and tracing the indents his teeth made in his lower lip with your eyes when he concentrated hard enough; you weren’t supposed to get the urge to smooth out the crinkle between his brows when he took notes on Nietzsche’s theories for his presentation. He was your best friend, your support, and your brother-in-arms, not your lover. And you repeat that fact to yourself over and over again as you lie awake on your side, staring across the endless stretch of space between your bed and his. You try extra hard when you walk through the halls: “I love the platinum blonde of that girl’s hair, I love the pale column of her throat, and the curve of her breast”, but instead all you can see is chocolate brown planes and angles that don't slot into the perfect circle of your life. You want to, you really do. You try your best at loving big blue eyes and delicate button noses, yet every time you close your eyes you are drowning in the undulation of his body and the stretch and pull of his skin.

The worst part is you don’t even know how it started.

You can’t end something you don’t know the start to.

Sometimes you ruminate on the harsh inevitability of the universe with a touch of morose humor; you could have all the girls and even all the boys in school, you are the best of the damn best, you are adored and loved and popular, but what use was all that when you can't have him?

 

_____

 

“So Odysseus, heard you were getting it on with your girl in the baseball field last night,” Agamemnon called out above the clamor as the track and field team changed for practice that day.

“Don’t get him started, he’ll never fucking shut up,” Diomedes said as he did up his laces, “could probably write a book about Penelope’s oh-so-lovely lips.”

“Oh is that right now? That good?” Agamemnon whistled as Odysseus buried his head in his hands.

“Shut the fuck up about my girlfriend Agamemnon,” Odysseus’ voice was muffled from where his head was still in his hands. Diomedes smirked and prodded at him with the end of his relay baton.

“So you _can_ not talk about Penelope hm? No good comebacks now? The famous Odysseus brought down by his love, his only weakness. Who’d have known?”

“Fuck you,” Odysseus replied as he adjusted and readjusted the tongue of his Nikes, now determined to pretend the entire team did not exist.

“Nah you just wish you had Chryseis, speaking of which Patroclus," he smirked, "rumour has it you and Briseis,” Agamemnon mimed a lewd gesture with his baton, and Idomeneus laughed and reached out for a high five.

“None of your business dickhead,” Patroclus replied while furiously pulling on his shirt, movements brisk. Achilles looked over from where he was leaning against his locker, already fully changed, and saw the brief flush of pink on Patroclus’ face.  _Why the fuck was he always blushing?_

“Touchy now aren’t we. Seems like we can’t talk about it if it’s serious,” Agamemnon wiggled his eyebrows.

“What now? You gonna write a book on her eyes like Odysseus here? Patroclus and his little girlfriend, gonna have a white picket fence round your house?” Idomeneus laughed, while Agamemnon continued.

“Maybe your kids could have play dates with Dysseus' kids over the weekend yeah? I can just see it." He spread his hands in the air in front of him, squinting at whatever scene he was imagining before smirking and looking up to Patroclus with one eyebrow raised. Patroclus gave him the finger as he stooped down to pull something out of his locker. Achilles glared and pushed off his own.

“Field in five gentlemen, snap to it,” he yelled as he walked towards the door, shouldering past Agamemnon to say, “Oh and have some respect man, gets you far,” before stalking out.

Agamemnon mouthed _fucking hypocrite_ at Idomeneus who shrugged. Achilles could be a moody bitch at times, and the team knew that it was best not to question it given the fact that Achilles had once sat out for an entire season over one of Agamemnon’s misplaced comments. To put it mildly, they'd gotten their asses kicked that season while Agamemnon sulked and his brother Menelaus got more and more agitated. 

“Oi watch it dude, I’m captain here!” he shouted before following Achilles out the door, never the one to be beat. As the rest of the team filed out, Odysseus lagged behind to wait for Patroclus and clapped him on the back in consolidation, but Patroclus shook his head.

“Listen man it’s not like that, we’re just—” he started before Odysseus cut him off.

“That’s what they all say before,” he offered him a wry smile. “Don’t worry Pat, you’ll get her soon enough what with your looks and all. Persistence is the key right?”

Patroclus only nodded stiffly and Odysseus gave him one last clap before jogging off to catch up with the others.

_It’s not her I want._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a Harvard Online Course about Heroes in Classical Greek Myths and that's been the highlight of my week thus far. A lot of interesting concepts about kleos and Achilles as a hero.
> 
> I also discovered the sad lack of smut in the fandom, hopefully that'll be remedied sometime soon.


	5. gap year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, highly unintentional but I hope this makes up for it. 
> 
> A little tidbit has also been edited into the end of this chapter, which makes this entire thing come in at about 10k words, quite the achievement for me I'd say.

_In the workroom_. 

His phone lit up with the text when he was on his way home.

He stopped snapping his gum as he slid this thumb across the screen, tapping out a quick _k coming_ before pulling out an ear bud to ask Automedon if they could possibly go any faster. The driver looked at Achilles with an air of disapproval, but he simply shrugged and batted his eyelashes before putting the ear bud in again. He gave him a thumbs up as Automedon rolled his eyes at him in the rear view mirror. 

Patroclus was painting again, working on one independent project or another that he’d taken up in his gap year in an effort to explore design. Pursuing a career in art had never occurred to Patroclus before, but after scoring a solid 7 in IB Art he began to reconsider some of his options. Going to art school had never been on the horizon for him when he was so dedicated to sport, but now that he thought about it he wouldn’t be averse to honing his artistic skill for four years.

Although Achilles could not draw to save his life (music was more his forte), he treasured those moments where he could sit and watch Patroclus paint, or draw, or sculpt in the little workroom Peleus had set up for him since he first took up art lessons when he was ten. He was notoriously shy about his work and used to paint all alone by himself in secret, locked up in that little room, afraid he’d be considered too _girly_ to hang out with the Atrides brothers and their group of varsity-jacket-wearing skirt chasers. He’d been wary of letting even Achilles into his “studio” at first, with its rickety chairs and wobbly trollies full of paint tubes, a half finished canvas on the broken easel he’d set up by himself, but Achilles had explored the space with the tips of his fingers, a strange wonder and reverence in his eyes as he traced his way around pencils scattered across table tops, oil paint spattered on walls, and two different sketchbooks opened to half filled pages lying on the floor.

The next time Achilles asked to watch him work, Patroclus only told him to keep his mouth shut in school before letting him into the room.  

Achilles found that Patroclus commandeered the attention of the universe in the flicks of his wrist and the sweeping arcs of his arm. He could spend hours watching him paint, watching him step forward and then back, dancing a familiar dance with his stationary partner, watching the work consume him. He could sometimes see traces of himself in the swathes of purples and reds, or in the curve of a shoulder that looked much too familiar, but he was probably reading into it, overlaying his own twisted fantasies atop his friend’s work. Even if it were intentional it was probably because he was around Patroclus so much that he became the automatic reference for whatever idea Patroclus had.

Sometimes Achilles would take out his guitar and hum an improvised melody, fingers strumming out absent notes that rang hollow in the empty expanse of the room. Patroclus would never acknowledge his humming directly, but Achilles could tell by the shift in the rhythm of his work that he was in tune with him.

Sometimes he’d break the silence of Achilles’ song and turn to him, stepping out of his art induced hypnosis back to Achilles and Achilles would look up to smile at him with a gentleness that he could never muster up for anyone else. Patroclus would ask about this color, or that line, or if he thought that the paint was too thick here, and “does the nose look right? Isn't it a bit big?”. Achilles isn’t half the artist he is and he doesn’t know why it’s his advice Patroclus takes, but he gives it freely anyway and Patroclus would nod seriously, gnawing at the end of his brush.

Sometimes Achilles would reach for his pencils and sharpen them one by one, lining them up from F all the way to 9B and then close his eyes, pick one up, and draw aimless swirls on the back of his sketchbooks just to mess with him. Sometimes Patroclus would ask him to bring him a tube of paint, or to pose for him, and Achilles would take off his shirt and stand patiently as Patroclus’ eyes flicked rapidly between him and the canvas.

Sometimes he’d bring Patroclus a cup of his favorite Americano from the Nespresso downstairs while he drained a smoothie; sometimes Patroclus would light a cigarette and stare unseeingly out the window, and Achilles watched the way the grey smoke curled out of his mouth and the way his fingers tapped ash onto the floor, the push and pull of the tendons of his hand.

Once Achilles, half-drunk off vodka, thought “the world could fucking burn, I only need him” as he watched the rapid motion of Patroclus’ hand blur, touch fleeting and light on the piece in front of him.

The strange rhyme of his thoughts scared him.

Achilles was a creature of brutality and power and pure carnal drive, poetry was never within his realm of command. He chalked it up to all the vodka fucking with his head and took another swig straight from the bottle before Patroclus could notice and grab it out of his hands.

Now Achilles silently tiptoed into the room, gently closing the door behind him as he made his way towards Patroclus. Billy Idol was blasting on full volume from two mini speakers on the ground while Patroclus stood away from the easel, weight on one foot and tapping his chin with the end of his brush. He was about to lift what was left of his Marlboro to his mouth when Achilles crept up behind him to rest his head on his shoulder and slowly snake his arms around his waist. Patroclus jumped at the sudden contact and dropped his brush with a clatter and a curse, while Achilles took advantage of his surprise to steal the cigarette away from him to lift to his own lips. 

“Fucking hell Achilles what the fuck, I could have burned you you absolute shi—hey give that back ‘s not good for you, you have a race coming up soon.”

Patroclus twisted slightly in his arms and Achilles laughed, exhaling a steady stream of smoke before dropping the cigarette on the floor as he dropped his arms, crushing the cherry red nub under the heel of his polished black shoes.

“I like it so far,” he said, nodding at the half finished canvas, “a lot of movement.”

Patroclus crouched down to retrieve his brush and rub at the little spot of color it had left on the floor with a tissue.

“Oh yeah? Thanks,” he smiled as he stood up and tossed the wad into the little garbage bin in the corner, “I'm a bit iffy on the blue over there, thought it could be lighter by a notch,” he gestured at a spot of color and took a step back.

“Well now that you put it like that,” Achilles tilted his head and folded his arms, “I can see it lighter, would be a nice complement to that bit over there,” he flapped his left hand vaguely at the bottom corner of the canvas and Patroclus nodded in agreement.

“My thoughts exactly.” He jabbed lightly at the palette that was resting on one of the paint trollies, while Achilles navigated his way to the makeshift sound system to turn the music off. 

“Jesus you hard of hearing or something? Think the next door neighbors can hear Mr. Idol here and they’re about, oh let’s see, very fucking far away from us?” The music really wasn’t that loud, but Achilles preferred to make his own now that he was there. It was good practice for him anyway, he rarely got the chance to play these days.    

“Shut up, I didn’t tell you to come in here to bitch about my music.”

“What, am I only useful for getting coffee now? My time is precious man, so if you can’t pay it up then suck it up.”

“Just piss off and go play your guitar." 

“Aye aye captain,” Achilles sloppily saluted, all the training from his many summers spent at military camp forgotten as he grinned. He flopped down on the brown leather couch in the corner of the room and bent to retrieve his guitar case, humming softly under his breath as he drew out the instrument. The drumming of the soft rain on the windowpane and the _scritchscratch_ of rough bristles on stretched canvas was the perfect accompaniment to his mellow strumming and the cadence of his voice. He only hoped that the combination of sounds didn’t play Patroclus to sleep. _Perhaps a livelier tune would work better here_ he mused.

“So I was also thinking,” Patroclus started, hand dipping down to the palette, eyes trained on his work, “might drive down to NYC and explore some career options and stuff. You know, get a feel of the world before hopping into uni.” 

“Yeah sure. You should definitely consider art though, like, look at you,” Achilles responded, fingers moving lightly over the frets, hair falling into his eyes as he bent over to tune the instrument. His counsellor kept on telling him that he’d probably be able to get a sports scholarship anywhere, not that Peleus couldn’t have paved the way with money, but he didn’t have a particular destination in mind; he only wanted the journey to include Patroclus. If Patroclus knew where he wanted to go, well, that'd just make Achilles’ job easier.

“Thanks man, appreciate it. Probably be gone for a week? Briseis says she has some space in her room, at least enough for me to crash for a few nights, introduce me to a few of her NYU friends or something—” 

“The house’d feel weird without you.” He stopped tuning to look up and tuck strands of errant hair behind his ear. The guitar was a bit hopeless anyway, a shitty second-hand thing he’d picked up at a garage sale somewhere, so as long as it sounded vaguely right to the inattentive ear then it was good enough for the two of them.

“—heard they have a great art program too.” Patroclus was now stroking the canvas with feather light touches of a soft oval brush, three other brushes held in his left hand as his right hand worked. He paused for a bit. “Yeah don’t worry, be back ‘fore you know it,” he stopped working and turned to smile at Achilles, who could do nothing but smile back. 

“Glad you’re exploring though, don’t want to like I dunno, pigeon-hole you into something like international business,” he made a face, knowing full well that his fate was already sealed. But he guessed in some ways everything was easier for him, no need to worry his pretty head over mundane little things, as his mother would say. Patroclus laughed, shaking his head before turning back to his work.

“You couldn’t if you tried.” 

_____

It was at another one of Agamemnon’s shitty parties, or was it Menelaus’? Patroclus can’t quite remember. One of those with the flashing lights and the cheap ass alcohol and the smell of smoke wafting through the clouded air, girls with too short skirts laughing as they fell over one another. Youth, flesh, desire, the glint of sequins, the hint of a smile. The situation, the absurdity of it all was becoming quite redundant. What the fuck was he doing? Why was he even here? He had someone, a face, kissing him, grabbing at him, laughing in his ear, and whimpering as he helped her take off her shirt. Why was he taking off her shirt? Why was she pressing her breasts into his chest? They weren’t even in a bathroom, standing in a hidden corner like that on full display, people all around them drunk off their fucking asses and dancing and her lips were on his and he could doing nothing but kiss back. Might as well put on a show for all the voyeurs watching. He needed someone he realized, wanted to feel something other than the feeling of his hand on his own goddamn cock, other than that emptiness that welled up inside him and threatened to eat him raw. Yes. Yes now he remembered. That’s why he didn’t push her away. He smiled as he bit the soft skin of her neck. Heaven knows this isn’t going to be slow lovemaking—god he absolutely hated that word—it was going to be dirty and rough and forgettable, another notch on his proverbial bedpost. Just the way he liked it. 

“I’ve heard about you Patroclus,” she purred, running a hand down his chest to his belt. He had managed to keep his shirt on, that was something. “You are quite the star aren’t you?” Her breath smelled of vodka and something synthetic. He laughed, throaty. He shouldn’t really chain smoke, made him sound like Christian Bale’s Batman or a dirty old man. Maybe that was who he really was, already graduated but still hooking up with high school girls. How low the mighty have fallen.

“Well, darling, that’s for you to find out,” he smirked as he slid a hand into her hair, thinking for one brief bizarre moment how similar in shade it was to _his_ hair, before bringing her in for another kiss. His other hand went to her ass.

“You know, no one lasts longer than thirty seconds with me,” she was stroking him through his jeans now, palming at him, her words slurring. He looked past her into the throng of people making fools of themselves and languidly kissed his way to her ear, tugging on her earlobe. She unbuttoned his jeans, her hand cold against his skin. 

“Oh yeah?” Her eyes met his, coy smile on her face as the nails of her other hand dug into his shoulder.

“You better start counting.” She dropped to her knees, out of view and pulled down his pants, mouth hot on his soft dick. His fingers were still tangled in the curls of her hair, his eyes still aimlessly sweeping the crowd. His dick was cooperating at least, just barely but enough for now. It felt good of course, a muted thrumming sense of pleasure that barely registered, something that could get him through the night, give him something to talk about later on.

Man, a shot would be fantastic right about now.

And then he saw Achilles, golden and pulsing underneath the light, hair mussed, smile loose and wide. Turning round the corner it seemed like he’d spotted Patroclus at the exact same time and was making his way towards him when he suddenly spotted the girl on her knees in front of Patroclus, his hand on her bobbing head. Achilles stopped in his tracks, away from the crowd but close enough, close enough that if Patroclus really wanted and really reached he could just touch him.

He didn’t. Achilles’ smile had disappeared from his face and there was a weird glint to his eyes as he looked down, then up.

 _Chips of emerald_.

Patroclus’ pleasure seemed to have tripled over the span of those few seconds. Funny how he thought the girl was exaggerating about the thirty seconds thing at first.

Achilles stuck his hands in his pockets and stood there, just watching him steadily, eyes boring into his. Somehow he made watching his best friend get a blowjob seem normal and not really fucking weird it like was supposed to be. Patroclus licked his lips, finding his mouth suddenly dry and thoughts scrambled, the pleasure cresting and now at the forefront of his mind. His hand tightened in the girl’s hair and he moaned involuntarily as he gave a sharp thrust into her mouth.

He couldn’t look away.

Achilles held his gaze, eyes flickering down again to watch the girl, before looking back up at him with a slight tilt to his mouth, like a cat who'd gotten the cream. Smug and devastatingly beautiful, that bitch.

Patroclus felt his eyes flutter shut as he choked off a gasp and came down the girl’s throat, his head landing against the wall with a dull thud, chest heaving. The girl pulled off with a wet sound, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and smearing red lipstick across her face. She grimaced slightly and stood up, muttering something about a drink and how boys are so fucking rude. Achilles had disappeared somewhere again, gone as if he was never there and Patroclus was left to pull up his jeans and adjust himself, fingers itching for a cigarette or a joint, anything, even those godforsaken pills of Machaon’s. 

He needed more to banish the green and gold from his mind.


	6. university: sophomore year

Achilles adjusted his tie with shaking hands and sweaty fingers, staring into the mirror unseeingly as he fumbled with the strip of silk. He was normally more in control of his bodily functions, but today was not a normal day, so really who could blame him? Muttering a string of curses, he dragged his palm up the leg of his bespoke trousers with half a mind to chop the uncooperative appendage off, but was intercepted midway by a firm hand on his wrist. Achilles looked up, narrowing his eyes at Patroclus, who was standing in front of him, his mouth twisted in a disapproving frown and hand dry and warm on his clammy skin.

“Stop it, you’ll get sweat stains on your ten thousand dollar suit,” he reprimanded in the most mother-hen tone possible, sounding more like Achilles’ mother than Thetis ever did. 

Achilles rolled his eyes.

“Bet I’ve already gotten sweat stains on my shirt, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“That’s different. Your shirt’s only Zegna, this shit on the outside?” He nodded at the dark grey wool and silk blend jacket that hung open and unbuttoned, “this is goddamn tailored Brioni and if you aren’t going to look after it, I’ll do it for you.”

Achilles huffed, “chill man, not like you haven’t seen better.” 

“You’re telling _me_ to chill?” Patroclus gave an indelicate snort.

“Yup,” he replied, popping the last p, the lines of his face unfurling slightly from his previously stormy expression to twist into a mischievous grin. He tried to turn back to the mirror and made to lift his hand and work on his tie again before realizing that Patroclus was still holding onto his wrist. He coughed and raised a pointed eyebrow, then looked up and glanced back down at their hands. Patroclus, who had been contemplating cuffing Achilles on the back of his head, followed his gaze in surprise, as if he hadn’t noticed he was still holding onto Achilles’ wrist in a death grip, and quickly dropped his wrist with a frown.

“You aren’t wearing that PP watch your dad got you for your birthday last year.” 

“Oh nah, much prefer the one you got me in that shop in like Williamsburg or something. Fits better, so y’know, makes me less likely to fuck up during dinner,” Achilles gave a dry laugh, turning away to look into the full-length mirror in front of him and stare at the accursed strip of silk that still hung limply around his neck. There were supposed to be at least two other people here in the hotel room right now, his tailor and a make-up artist, but he’d sent them away after all the talking and fussing had gotten on his already frazzled nerves. Why did he need make-up anyway? Surely even the vice president has seen some dark circles in his day. Plus, Achilles was certain that he’d prefer an imperfect visage to Achilles blanking out in the middle of a conversation cause he’d lost his train of thought.

He regretted sending them away now—at least the tailor could’ve stayed—as he couldn’t seem to get his fingers to cooperate properly to tie his goddamn tie and he had thirty more minutes before he was due at the restaurant.

Thank whichever higher deity up on some mountain or some shit that Patroclus had taken the time on Friday to specially drive up to DC to see him after getting his freak-out phone call the week before. Achilles wasn’t the type to run from a problem, don’t get him wrong, but he was the type to sit obstinately in his hotel room, stubborn as a bull, adamant in his refusal to go to the dinner or the meeting or the whatever the hell it was that his parents had hooked him up with. He had sort of managed to develop a track record for holding up meetings. A few months before he was two hours late to afternoon tea with one of his father’s Congress buddies, a few weeks before it was brunch with his grandfather on his mother’s side, and a few days before it was—actually, he wasn’t even going to go there because he’s just _a fucking political science undergrad at Princeton okay_ , not someone in the middle of a goddamn campaign or anything. But his parents had stressed the importance of _networking and building up connections_ and okay, fine, yeah he’ll do it but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy the process. 

Which was where his best friend came in to give him that final push he so desperately needed in times like these and help him get over himself.

With this particular dinner, Patroclus decided that if he had to dedicate his entire weekend to skyping Achilles, he might as well just go and meet him in person. The drive from New York to DC wasn’t that long, and to be honest, he felt better if he could actually talk to Achilles in person. But he was _completely_ unsympathetic now to Achilles’ plight as he stood in the middle of the hotel room, arms crossed over his chest and looking unimpressed as Achilles’ tie slipped, yet again, out of the trembling cage of his fingers.

“Honestly, how do you even survive without me?” Patroclus sighed, shaking his head as he gripped Achilles’ shoulders and turned him around to face him. “Here, least I don’t have a bunch of bananas for fingers.”

He batted Achilles’ fingers away impatiently, and he obediently dropped his hands, heaving a sigh of frustration. Patroclus, unlike Achilles, seemed well versed in the art of tying, looping and tucking the dark emerald tie with fond exasperation, motions smooth and practiced. He made the entire thing seem like it was the easiest thing in the world. With a defeated moan, Achilles rubbed a hand over his face. 

“You and your goddamn artist’s fingers, that's what it is,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Patroclus teased as he adjusted the tie, “for your information, I’m only an art _minor._ ”

“Just fuck off will you.”

Patroclus’ lips tilted up in a smirk as he ran a head down the length of the tie before reaching for the buttons on Achilles’ jacket. He brushed his thumb lightly over the mother-of-pearl button.

“Then who’ll take care of you?” He shot back. “Want me to sort you out?”

Achilles nodded silently, careful not to bump his head against Patroclus’, “big ol’ me can’t seem to do it myself.” 

Patroclus didn’t look up as he made a quick job of buttoning and gave two firm tugs on the jacquard grey suit. He ran both palms down the front soothingly, fingers gliding over the material, and then reached up to adjust and tuck the tie in snugly. Traveling up, he ran his fingers under the lapels, before moving his hands from Achilles’ chest to his shoulders, satisfied with how the front looked as his hands spanned outward. Achilles, on the other hand, willed himself to breath, fighting to remember a breathing exercise someone had taught him as he felt his lungs catch. He wasn’t sure which was worse: dressing himself up and risk being late for his vice-president-appointment or having Patroclus do it for him and give him a heart attack or congestive heart failure in the process. Patroclus seemed totally oblivious to Achilles’ problem, or should he say _problems_ , as he methodically evened out creases, running his palms across the breadth of Achilles’ shoulders and gently brushing down his sleeves. Every damn place Patroclus touched seemed to warm and tingle, and Achilles acutely felt every point of contact, senses amplified and fine-tuned to Patroclus’ touch. He drew a shaky breath in through his nose and slowly breathed out from his mouth, mind desperately grasping at the image of the vice president blowing kisses at him in a corset. He didn’t care how uncomfortable he’d be later on actually facing the man; he just needed to avoid popping a semi now. 

But the torture ended (all too soon, if he was honest) as Patroclus’ hands travelled down and reached Achilles’ own. Taking both Achilles’ hands, he looked up and squeezed, soft smile on his open face.

“You’re gonna be fine, amazing. You know you always are,” he reached up to pat Achilles’ flushed cheek. Achilles’ pupils were blown and his lips bitten red. _Nerves_ Patroclus guessed and gave his hand another squeeze, “it’s just the vice president, no big deal,” Patroclus tried and Achilles laughed at that, looking slightly less agitated.  

Achilles coughed, “yeah, just the vice president I’ve got to charm.” His voice came out slightly raspy and he winced internally, hoping that the other man didn’t notice. 

Patroclus leaned up, pressing a kiss briefly to his forehead. “Start by not being late,” he smiled and stepped away with one last pat to Achilles’ cheek, pulling his phone out of his pocket and raising his eyebrows, “you’ve got ten minutes.”    

Achilles groaned at the reminder, feeling around his pockets to check for his phone and wallet, then spun in search of the hotel room card. Patroclus made his way over to the bed and settled himself down, phone out and legs crossed. “Don’t bother, I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Whatever did I do to deserve you?” Achilles grinned as he darted for the door, “thanks man, love you!” He called as he disappeared, door falling shut behind his shadow.

“Love you too.” Patroclus replied faintly, shaking his head as read the text on his phone.

_havin fun w/the gf?_

_not a booty call man, family event._

_o i c, family now hm._

_lol just playin, have fun ;)_

_u are just as bad as B._  

_ur the 1 gettin some._

He tossed his phone to the side and buried his face into a pillow. Reality was too harsh right now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a massive thank you to everyone for reading and leaving kudos on this fic. It honestly means a lot to me. :)
> 
> And also apologies for the delay, I've been trying to get a lot done these past few weeks. I might edit in another bit later on, but we'll see.


	7. rewind: gap year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by a post on tumblr

“You have a turntable? Holy shit what are you? The definition of hipster?” Patroclus exclaimed, staring down at the offending object with an air of disbelief. He looked back up at Achilles, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a bottle of tequila hanging from one hand, hair sticking up at every angle and illuminated gold by the afternoon sun. A dopy smile nestled in the curves of his cheeks. 

“Shut up. I saw it at a garage sale and it was screaming out to me.”

“A _garage_ sale? Dude,” Patroclus turned around slowly to wave a finger in Achilles’ direction, “hipster.” He declared with a wide grin.

Achilles laughed, throwing his head back and wobbling towards Patroclus, trying but failing to navigate around the island in the middle of the room. In his recollections, the kitchen wasn’t a homely place. It screamed of tension, of late night glasses of scotch and white knuckles, of harshly whispered conversations that echoed across the polished stainless steel surfaces, reverberating in his ear.

Right then though, right then with the sun slanting in through the windows and swathing each sharp corner in brilliant yellow, Achilles found that he wouldn’t mind spending his entire life there.

He smiled up at Patroclus, who was looking at him with fond exasperation, and lifted up the half empty bottle. Patroclus reached over, their hands brushing as he plucked it from his fingers. Achilles continued his trek around the island, stumbling just a little as he reached the turntable and clumsily opened the box by its side.

“What d'you wanna listen to?” He muttered as flipped slowly through a small assortment of vinyl records. 

Patroclus shrugged. “You choose.” He took a swig straight from the bottle, looking too amused to be sincere. 

Achilles groaned, his fingers dancing aimlessly over the worn paper sleeves of the records. “Lazy.” 

Patroclus rolled his eyes, “says the kettle to the pot.” 

Achilles snatched up a record, waving it around in the air, “if these weren’t real nice, real hard to get, real secondhand records,”

“Real second-hand,” Patroclus repeated, cackling. 

“Will you just, ugh. I am so tempted to chuck one at your face regardless you smug bastard.”

Patroclus only laughed harder, setting the bottle heavily down on the marble surface of the island and doubling over, gasping.

Achilles flipped him off, rolling his eyes as he pulled the Sinatra record out of its sleeve, settled it onto the turntable, and switched the machine on. There was a few seconds of static as the needle hit the vinyl, and Achilles leaned on the edge of the counter, running a hand through his hair.

“And they say I’m the hipster.” Patroclus had recovered slightly, but the apples of his cheeks were still red, “Summer Wind?” He hummed.   

 “Yeah,” Achilles replied, picking his way over to the other boy with a slight swing to his hips. 

He closed his eyes, fingers tapping a half-hearted lethargic beat, “hip-ster.”

“You love it,” Achilles replied with confidence as he walked right up to Patroclus, a smirk on his lips as he leaned into his personal space, their noses a mere centimeter away. Patroclus’ eyes cracked open, but he could only grinned dazedly at the mottled face in front of his unfocused eyes, mind not quite clear enough to register the situation. His hands came up to take their place on Achilles’ hips, fingers slipping under his tank top to rub lazy circles into his sun warmed skin.

His smile was devious as he used Sinatra's crooning as an excuse to lurch even closer.

“Hey,” Patroclus mumbled, lips grazing Achilles'. 

_It lingered there, to touch your hair and walk with me_

Patroclus’ eyes fluttered shut again and his breath caught in his throat.

“Hey yourself,” Achilles laughed abruptly as he danced away from Patroclus, fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of the bottle as he sent it to his lips. He watched as Patroclus’ eyes flew open, then narrowed. 

“Oh you little shit, you did not just—” He growled, advancing towards Achilles who was still laughing as he backed away, eyes never leaving his even when he hit the cold door of the fridge with a dull thud. It was a dance, never rehearsed but a dance nonetheless. Achilles grinned impishly, caged in by Patroclus’ arms on both sides of his head. He set the bottle down.

“Had to get to the alcohol somehow,” he said insouciantly, batting his eyelashes.

“You are insufferable.” 

Achilles could smell the tequila on Patroclus’ breath and he wanted to laugh again at the sudden reversal of roles.

_Two sweethearts, and the summer wind_

He had moved closer to him somehow, and Achilles’ hands subconsciously made their way around his neck, stroking the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Patroclus’ eyes were closed again as he leaned in almost hesitantly and shifted to press their lips softly together.

_The world was new, beneath a blue umbrella sky_

Patroclus broke the kiss with a grin, and he looked down at Achilles, whose chest was rising and falling rapidly.              

“You—”

“Shh,” he soothed, “what are friend for?”

Their noses brushed as Achilles tipped his head forward.

His breath was warm as it fanned across Patroclus’ lips. “Yeah, what are friends for,” he whispered, clumsily tugging at the back of his head. Their lips met again, impatiently, teeth clicking as they licked the alcohol off of each other’s tongues. Patroclus spun the two around, and Achilles laughed into his mouth, hands tight around Patroclus’ neck. 

_I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind_

Patroclus’ hand lingered on each notch of Achilles’ spine as it ran a down his back and settled on his waist, but Achilles was smiling too widely for them to prolong the kiss, and so he pulled away, pressing gentle kisses to the corner of his mouth then down his neck instead. Achilles tipped his head to the side, baring his neck as he sang along quietly and swayed to the languid beat, giggling drunkenly at Patroclus. His hand raked steadily through his hair.

_And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end_

Dizzy off sunlight and top-shelf tequila, Patroclus dropped his head onto Achilles’ shoulder, watching the light shift across the loose white fabric over his chest as they slow danced to Sinatra at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon.

He chuckled a little at the absurdity.

“We’re such hipsters,” he murmured.

“Mmmm,” Patroclus could feel his voice vibrating in his chest, “let’s run away so we can be hipsters everyday.”

Patroclus lifted his head and drew him impossibly closer, fingers indenting the flesh at Achilles’ hips, but he seemed to take no note as he swayed contently in his arms, a small smile on his face and cheek pressed into the crook of Patroclus’ neck.

“Tomorrow. Let’s do it.” A hand traced up Achilles’ back again.

_The summer wind,_

Achilles’ lips touched Patroclus’ skin lightly in reply, still mouthing along to the lyrics of the song.

_warm summer wind,_

Patroclus’ hand swept rhythmically up and down the expanse of Achilles’ back, motion reminiscent of the way he painted in long sweeping arcs, except this time Achilles was his canvas, and Patroclus had an eternity to work on him.

_the summer wind_


End file.
